Maladaptive Wonderland
by MarkScyther
Summary: A young teen by the name of "Keon" goes through facing the fact that he have been diagnosed having a Mental illness. An illness that is rarely talked about. After being signed to a psychologist, he opens the locked doors to his mind and introduce the being running wild inside his altered reality. Through realization, tears, truths, and pains, he has a choice to tame his wonderland
Regular P.O.V. : Koen

P.O.V. Switch: **Bold**

Thoughts: _Italicized_

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 _Maladaptive Wonderland_

Chapter 1: Diagnosis

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 _Thursday, October 10th, 2013_

 _"Let's start with you introducing yourself, shall we?"_

I began to tap the end of my pen against the desk endlessly as my therapists words roamed throughout my busy head. _I just started my sessions with her today, and she's already making me do stuff. Hell, a normal therapist would ask for you to "Verbally" introduce yourself to them, not make you write it out in full details. ... It's a bit of a problem because at times even **I** can't describe myself. So I guess trying is my only resort to things. _I gave a tired sigh as I took a moment to look away from the blank sheet of paper and towards the young-looking brunette.

She rose a brow at me, telling me through silence that this session wasn't going to get by any quicker if I didn't write my introduction.

Although she didn't express a single word to me, she was right.

So I returned my gaze back towards the paper and began to drag my pencil across the sheet.

 _"My name is Koen F, Berkley. My birthday is May 30th, 1998; making me fifteen years old. I have short, messy, black hair, but, I always wear a beanie or cap to cover most of it. I keep enough hair out to cover my face, and I don't know why most of the time._

 _I'm pretty short for a guy, considering that I'm 5'4". I blame my parents for that, of course. But anyway, I live with my aunt and older sister in this tiny one-bedroom home not too far from here. We all sleep in the same room. There, there's no such thing as "privacy" because our home is so small. ... I choose not to complain on the size because it's better a one-bedroom home than living with an abusive father that forces you and your aunt to sleep in the living-room. On these poorly used individual mattresses; dirty. Not even providing blankets for us._

 _I know I may be running off the topic of introducing myself, but it should tie in because this is where I've came from not too long ago. ... Not even a year ago._

 _Ms. Conner, let me tell you where I've lived in the last two years, and why I was there._

 _My eldest sister, Julie, continued to bring her boyfriend over to our last apartment. The wrong in such action was that the manager was on site and didn't like there being strange visitors who's not included in the rent papers; which happened to be her and her boyfriend. ... My aunt accepted Julie into our apartment because she had a one year old daughter that didn't have a place to stay. Those ads hats ... Julie and her boyfriend, Craig, kept arguing to the point it got violent._

 _They argued both inside and outside our apartment, and no matter how much I told my aunt to throw them out but keep the child, she didn't listen. Next thing that led to another we got an eviction notice._

 _Money was tight, and although I was twelve at the time, I understood the situation._

 _We were damn near broke, no one had a job, and we're dependant off of my adoption checks. So to put it simple, we were homeless for a week and had to live in a motel till one day, my aunt contacted Stephanie, my fathers wife, and described our situation. She agreed to have us stay at her home, and even got the okay from my father when he contacted her from jail._

 _From that day forth, I was destined to live in Hell for two years._

 _Some would describe hell as to being a place full of madness, fear, and torture. ... Well that's exactly what it was during our stay._

 _Sleeping in a cold living-room every night. Having a woman that's not your blood-related grandma spy on you every single day along with your half-brothers; sometimes you'd notice, other times you don't. So then you become paranoid and feel like the walls have eyes. To top it, they even listen to your conversation outside by your window if they realize it's open. So you're not allowed to speak ill about them, about your business, or about anything really._

 _I was quiet as it was, but living there had forced me to become mute. I couldn't even hang around outside because their home was located in a bad neighborhood. So I would often spend my time sitting inside their kitchen by myself reading horror stories on my aunt's phone and go on a social website. It was honestly the only way I was able to "actually" communicate with people who weren't a part of the madness._

 _As time and the abuse went on, I unknowingly developed my own type of craziness._

 _I guess I wasn't aware of it because I always blocked things out. Like my reality because I hated it. I even went as far as to I hate humans in general. I secretly despised the living hell out of our species because all they've done was treat me like a puppet, use me, walk over me, and once that they've seen this puppet has cracked, they back away from me as if I'm a caged beast. ... But I was in a way. They backed away and shun me. Yelled at me. Talked about me. Despise me. Made me look like a demon._

 _I must say, living there really made me stop believing in anything. I was already skeptical of religions from the beginning, but I realized God didn't exist once the last pure part of me was burned alive in that cage. Asylum. Freak show. ... Hell._

 _God didn't save me for shit. I don't know what I've done to deserve anything, but it better have been murder. God, ... whatever I've done to deserve it, let it be worth it._

 _All I wanted there was to have someone listen to my cries. Both actual and mental. ... To take a needle and stitch back up the wound on my heart. But because they refused to give me their hand, I had to do it on my own. I failed at the attempt because I continued to bleed through the stitches._

 _I wouldn't have had to stitch anything back up if it weren't for them stabbing me in the back, mind, and heart. Love doesn't feel good. It hurts. Well, that's my theory on it. So I stay in my head and keep to myself. ... After all, my life is better there than here." I lastly wrote._

 ** _4:29 p.m._**

After Ms. Conner had got through reading over my paper, she sat it aside and began scribbling things into the notepad that was previously on her lap. And without breaking her gaze from her notepad, she finally said, "It sounds as though you went through a meltdown, Koen. And may I ask how frequently in a day do you daydream?" She then asked.

The question sort of threw me off guard. So I began messing with the sleeves to my black hoodie and thought about it. But it didn't take long for me to mumble, "When I'm not happy"

I assumed she heard because the room was extremely quiet.

My assumption turned out to be correct once she responded, "And when are you not happy?"

Again, I began to fidget with my sleeves. _I guess I'm never happy. Nothing's really worth being happy about._ I frowned a little before responding, "I guess ... all the time."

"And for how long have decided to get out of reality? Just give me a general time that you really began doing it. ... Take your time answering." She calmly told me. I slightly nodded my head and thought about it for a while.

 _When I'm not happy, which is generally all my life. ... I remember fragments of being in court once they gave me to my aunt for adoption. Being left with nothing but a picture of my mother. Watching my sister's physically fight my aunt. Crying when I was seven because I was witnessing it, and because of that, my aunt turned and threatened me to stop crying or else she'll beat me. Being molested by my eldest sister when I was eight. ... The list continues to go on, lady._

"I, uh, don't really know. I guess when I was in fifth grade. So ten/eleven years old. When I was ten I remember having a bit of an imaginary friend, but inside my head" I quietly began. "I would mentally talk to them when I'm upset or sad, I guess. Maybe it was because I never had anyone to run to when life became difficult for me. ... But getting stuck in my daydreams started when I began middle school/started living at my dad's house."

She stopped writing for a moment and stared at me.

 _I know I sound crazy. Just say it already._

"Koen, ... you may have a mental disorder called _Maladaptive Daydreaming._ I'm only making this hypothesis based off of the stuff you wrote, and the answers you gave in response to my questions. Now I'm going to speak to our on-site psychologist about this and have him give you a test tomorrow morning. If it checks out, you're going to start seeing him instead of me, okay?" She explained. "I'll make sure to notify your aunt about your next appointment." And with that, she stood from her seat and motioned for me to follow her out the room.

 _Maladaptive Daydreaming? ... Mental ... Disorder?_


End file.
